


In Care Of

by nanaa127



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Gen, bad ideas all around, gen but could be read as pre-slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 20:30:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17567453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanaa127/pseuds/nanaa127
Summary: Nightingale wants to see Peter. Walid refuses, not that it makes much of a difference. Missing scene from Midnight Riot.





	In Care Of

Dr. Walid walked into the darkened private room strongly hoping that his patient would be asleep. Despite this, he was hardly surprised by the rustle of stiff sheets as Thomas shifted uneasily on the narrow hospital bed. There was a small huff of discomfort that was quickly silenced.

"Abdul?" 

Walid sighed. "Who else?" He turned on the small lamp attached to the bedframe. A pale face turned towards him, and the grey eyes that regarded him were inadvisably alert.

"You're supposed to be sleeping, Thomas," Walid disapprovingly informed Nightingale. He glanced at the monitors and grabbed the chart attached to the bed. His severe tone obviously did nothing to put off Nightingale as the man simply stared at him. 

"Peter?" the Inspector rasped. 

"You need proper rest if you want a chance at a good recovery," Walid continued, turning his attention to the chart. He frowned and flipped up the pages. "That means no secret meetings, no plotting, no staying up at night waiting for wayward constables."

"I'll be fine," Nightingale insisted. Walid thought he'd sound more convincing if the words had come out as something other than a pinched whisper. "Not the first time I've been shot."

Walid's frown deepened. "I'm well aware. And don't say that as if being shot is something that gets easier to overcome the more often you do it. It's not."

"Something must be said about experience in such matters," Nightingale mused haltingly.

"It says that you're terrible at avoiding bullets."

"Perhaps," Nightingale acquiesced. Long fingers worried at the thin blanket that covered his lower half before he returned to his topic of interest. "Peter? Is there news?"

Walid sighed heavily and perched himself on the edge of the mattress. "Well, he's alive."

The fingers clenched around the rough cloth. "That's not as reassuring as you might think."

"Better than the alternative," the doctor replied. 

"Peter's plan was...risky. I need to know."

To be quite honest, Walid hadn't even noticed anything was off with Peter when he'd run up the stairs to the coach house at the Folly. His entire focus had been on Leslie May's mummified head and ensuring that she didn't choke on her own blood and pulverized tissue before being whisked off. It hadn't been until Peter had unceremoniously sprawled into a dead faint that Walid had realized anything was wrong with Nightingale's apprentice. He had originally thought the blood smeared all over Peter was Leslie's, but the boy's ashen skin and rapid pulse had indicated otherwise. Thomas had warned him that Peter might need his help, but the constable's condition had still been an unpleasant surprise. 

"Hypovolemic shock was a concern, but it's past now. Do I want to know how he came to be in such a state?"

Nightingale let out a small puff of air. "Molly." He sounded pained.

"Ah." Molly was a nice enough lass - quiet, attentive, devoted to Thomas and definitely not entirely human. Walid had once gotten a glimpse of the impressive teeth Molly hid behind her lips and he suddenly felt a little queasy when two and two came together.

"Is Peter here?" Nightingale made as if he was planning to push himself up, and Walid easily pressed him back down.

"He is, and he's resting. He'll be released in the morning."

"I need to see him."

Walid snorted. "That's not likely."

"Abdul." 

"I just told you he's fine."

"Thank you for that. I'd still like to confirm."

And there it was. Walid guessed that 'tough' was not a word that many would associate with Nightingale upon first glance even when he was healthy and standing on his own two feet, but those many would be very wrong. He knew all about the core of implacable English steel that lay just below the Inspector's refined exterior; he'd uselessly bashed himself against it before. 

"No, Thomas. You're not getting out of this bed."

"He's my apprentice."

Worry was stamped across Thomas' face as clearly as Walid had ever seen. He guessed that there was probably some code of obligation between master wizard and apprentice, and after drifting alone for so long, he also guessed that responsibility felt doubly heavy and urgent to Thomas. It was something Walid could appreciate, but ultimately it didn't really matter to him.

"That he is," Walid agreed. "You're still not getting out of this bed."

Nightingale turned towards him. The shadows thrown by the dim lamp deepened the hollows and lines that marked his face. Thomas would still be feeling very weak so soon after being shot, but the steady look that he gave Walid was unyielding. It politely promised that if Walid didn't help him, that he'd simply wait until the good doctor had left the room before staggering to Peter's side on his own. 

Walid returned a stare of his own. _I'll stay all night if needed. You're not going anywhere._

_You have other patients to attend. You'll leave eventually._

_I'll sedate you before I go. Don't think I won't._

Nightingale didn't even bother reacting to that and merely quirked an eyebrow before struggling onto his elbows. Walid bit back a curse involving wizards and goats and gently helped Thomas sit upright.

"Allah give me patience," the doctor muttered gruffly. "Let me get a chair. I won't have you falling on your arse on top of everything else."

"Thank you," Nightingale said, ever gracious in victory.

It took a moment to untangle Nightingale from the various lines and tubes that were hooked up his body. Despite the heavy duty pain medication that he was still on, the short trip to the general ward took its toll on the Inspector. Walid watched as Thomas' back began to bend under the weight of the raw gunshot wound. By the time they reached Peter's bed, Thomas had his right arm braced tightly against his side and his breath was coming in short, clipped gasps. The doctor parked the wheelchair and grasped Nightingale's good shoulder, which trembled lightly under his touch. Walid thought that he really should have gone down the sedative route, consequences be damned.

"He'll be alright?" Nightingale asked. A line snaked down from a drip bag of saline and bit into Peter's arm, providing much needed volume. Peter still looked peaked, but his face was lax and his breathing was even and deep in the throes of exhausted sleep.

"Yes. Because he's a good patient and resting like he's supposed to," Walid said pointedly.

The tense line of Nightingale's shoulders began to relax as he raked his eyes over Peter's still form. "Good. That's good," he whispered.

"Satisfied?" Walid asked. 

"Yes," Nightingale replied. His head began to droop forward. "Quite."

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I started working through these books (just finished Foxglove Summer) and am currently being held hostage by these characters. This was just a little exercise to try and get a feel for some of them before maybe moving into something more involved, so I'm tossing it out into the pool of incredible works that are part of this fandom. Thanks for reading!


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